Blood of Akatosh - Dragon Rising
by jjaudon
Summary: It is a dark time in Skyrim. Civil war threatens to tear the Fatherland apart. The Forsworn are rising again in the Reach. Riften is a den of Thieves. And now the ancient dragon Alduin has returned. A Breton Missionary is sent into this world, where two friends - one a knight trying to ease the suffering of her city, the other a young sellsword - will see him become the Dragonborn.
1. Prologue

This will be the first installment of the story of Aleron, a Breton warrior. Other POV Characters are Mjoll the Lioness and Erik the Slayer. Dragon Rising will follow mostly the Main Quest through the slaying of Mirmulnir.

* * *

Blood of Akatosh

Dragon Rising

* * *

Prologue

* * *

He came into the world like any other - through pain and suffering.

His mother had been sick for weeks, and the wise woman thought she would lose the baby. The old crone gave her some concoction then, to bring the child out early. It was dangerous, but they all feared she would grow too weak before he came; so she took the birthing elixir in the morning, and they all waited. That night she began.

It was a hard delivery, even as such things go - up until the end, anyway. The mother wailed, and breathed, and wailed. She begged for the thing to be cut out of her; begged for the wise woman to let her die, and save the babe. The wise woman, to her credit, simply ignored the mother's ravings and tried to give direction and encouragement when it was needed. She did complain once or twice that this was the most stubborn babe she had ever encountered. It was many hours before he finally graced the world with his powerful voice.

The father came, with their first child in tow, when he heard the babe cry. He was a small baby, even for a Breton, but his father was not surprised at that. His first son had received very little of his Nord blood; and besides, this one was early. They put the babe into his arms, and asked him what the boy's name should be.

"Aleron," he said.

* * *

The girl watched as flames consumed her whole life.

Bandits had come to Kolgrimstead in the night. The girl had watched as they cut down everyone in the village. One of them, a big brute of a fellow, had seen her weeping by her brother's broken body, and would have killed her there, but he said she would make a _good little toy for the boys_. She had told him she was only twelve, but he just laughed at her and said that girls were easier to keep than women - and that she had _tits_ enough for a woman anyway. He had set her aside, tied her to the cart where they put all the other things they were taking away with them

She watched as the bandits played games with her people. They stood in a half-circle around the entrance to the burning inn, stripping and beating Ulfar. The girl had always liked Ulfar. He was a handsome boy, if a bit of a dunce. When he was naked, bloodied, and bruised, they told him he could go… if he went through the inn. The place was an inferno. He tried to refuse, telling them he'd give them anything they wanted. Then one of the bandits, an Orc, started to take down his own pants as the others made to hold Ulfar down. The boy broke free and rushed into the flames. The bandits laughed so heartily at his screams, as he burned alive in that inn.

The girl witnessed a real rape, later. Ulfar's sister Dalla was caught as she tried to run from her husband's farmhouse. She screamed and faught, until the big ugly Nord who was on her stuck a dagger in the back of her skull. When he finished with her, long after she stopped twitching, he threw her in the inn with her brother.

It all rushed past the girl in horrifying slow motion. Time passed.

She sat in numbness, watching the destruction. It was all winding down now, and she figured they would come for her soon - whenever someone remembered she was still there.

It was not a long wait.

The man who had tied her there came back drunk and covered in blood. He untied her, and laughed when she did not try to run. She herself was surprised at how dead she felt. She had always been a feisty girl. Her mother had been training her with a sword since she was only six. But now she had no fire left with which to fight. All that had happened had broken her.

He took her up into the cart, where he threw out enough of the plunder to make room for his intended business. He sat her down there while he disrobed. In his drunkenness, he struggled with his clothes in the dark. When he wore only blood and earth, he pulled her to her feet again. She still could not bring herself to care; she just stared at the flames behind him. He laughed lowly to himself as he clapped a meaty hand under her jaw and forced her to look him in the face. Still, she didn't care. His other hand groped roughly at her breasts, and she felt him stiffen against her belly. He groaned like a beast, and then muttered something she couldn't understand. With both hands he tore off her nightshirt, and she was naked. She tried to cover her young womanhood, but he just laughed again. He would get to that later, he told her.

For now, he forced her to her knees. She knew what he wanted. She knelt there, staring at his gross appendage. He pressed it against her face, but she didn't open her mouth. The back of his big fist slammed across her jaw, sending her down among what was left of the spoils.

And then there it was: the anger she had known should be there. Rage bubbled up inside her like water in a kettle too long left over the fire. It burned in her head like a blade fresh from the forge.

As if opportunity had been waiting on her, the girl felt the handle of an axe under her fingers. She took hold of it, and then turned back to the bandit with a wolfish smile, keeping the weapon hidden behind her back. She did her best to appear defeated, holding his attention with doe eyes. The axe had a spike as a balance. She brought it up into his groin, skewering one testicle and tearing the other. A foot of iron ripped into his bowels, and he started to scream. The girl leapt up and grabbed his throat with both hands, silencing him. She dug her fingers into the skin - through the skin. She gripped the tendons and cartilage as blood ran out in gouts over her hands. With all her strength, she tore away; and with his throat came a shower of blood like nothing she could have expected. It sprayed out of the bandit like a geyser, covering her from head to toe.

She just knelt there - for how long, she did not know - naked and covered in blood like a newborn, until finally a voice stirred her.

"Mjoll," her father whispered.

* * *

The boy stood over three graves. Two were fresh. He still held the shovel. He was filthy, half-starved, and weeping. He was sobbing, the way only a person who has lost everything that mattered to him in the world could. He pled for answers from the ground, mumbling nonsense in racking sobs. How could it be? What could have taken them so quickly? Where were the gods, to let his parents die like that?

They had been hale and healthy just a week ago. He had tended the horses, as he always had. She had tended the garden. He had sold a horse just last Sundas. They were happy. And then on Tirdas they woke and couldn't keep any food down. They ate, and it all came up in violent sick. Their other evacuations were worse. The boy sent the fastest horse to the Priory, for help. The second day they couldn't rise. Stomach cramps kept them sweating into their bed sheets. They drank what water they could, but still they coughed most of it up again. The third and fourth days were much the same. The boy tried to keep liquid in them, and he prayed as often as he could. The horses went unfed. A fox got into the garden. On the fifth day, she did not wake at all. She slept, barely breathing. He lay beside her, weeping feeble tears, and tried to wake her. The boy waited. There was nothing else he could do now. He prayed to Talos to speed his priests along. On the sixth morning, she was dead. He died soon after. His last words were to tell his boy to be strong, and trust the gods.

Their names had been Tor and Corette. And now they rested beside Avenall, their first son.

The boy finally broke. He threw the shovel at the house - It nearly made it into a window. He sank to his knees, crying out at the world that had abandoned him. He raged and wailed; he pounded the earth until he collapsed into the upended dirt.

After some time, he looked up from his agony. He saw near at hand the woodaxe he had used for years, embedded in an old stump. He was dry of tears now. He had only rage.

The boy stood, refusing to even brush the soil off of his face. Through heaved breaths, he took the axe from the stump. Like a walking corpse, he dragged the instrument of destruction to the front door of Weatherleah. It had been his mother's ancestral home. For hundreds of years, the Jemane's had farmed this land and raised fine horses. The boy swung the axe with all the might he could find. The door buckled, but its hinges held. He dug out the axe and swung again. He was a strong boy, even in this state. The hinges exploded, sending shards of wood everywhere. The door fell.

This felt good. Now for the frame…

Hours passed - perhaps even a day or two.

Atop the graves, what had once been a fine house now burned high in the night. The boy stood like a sentinel, watching the blaze, axe in hand. Everything that had been Weatherleah was in that fire - well, he had scattered the horses and the cow, and the chickens he had eaten some time before. The walls, the roof, the floor boards, the cabinets and tables and benches, they all smoldered like so much kindling.

The boy's eyes burned from the bright flames. The heat on his face was terrible. It was like looking into Oblivion.

"Aleron!" a voice called from behind him.

He spun, to see two priests of Weynon Priory.

* * *

The boy could see the fires of their torches coming down the hillside. The Forsworn, he knew they were called. Natives of Skyrim from long before Ysgramor came, they hated the Nords. The boy had heard that they used to keep to their mountain settlements in the Reach, only raiding close to home; but they had grown bolder since they took Markarth during the Great War, before Ulfric Stormcloak came to drive them out again. How could Rorikstead stand against such a force?

The boy ran to find his axe. He was sixteen now, nearly a man and already bigger than most. Maybe he could kill one or two before they brought him down. It was a simple woodcutter's iron axe, and he found it in the pile of firewood he had been working on yesterday. His father yelled something after him as he headed back, but he ignored it. The old man would beat him bloody, he supposed, even if he survived the raid. But it could not be helped.

They were so much closer when he returned to the western edge of town. There, Rorik waited with the other men of the town, weapons and farming tools all ready to defend this fertile land.

The waiting was brutal. Time drew out like puss from a wound. Slowly the howling war cries and then the thundering of at least a hundred feet grew louder and louder. And finally, with a rush, it began.

The raiding party was at least fifty strong, to go against only fifteen able-bodied Roriksteaders and the six Whiterun guardsmen stationed there. The Forsworn wore little armor, and what they had was made of wood and stone, fur and bone - even their swords and axes. Still, they were warriors. They were savages.

The first that the boy came upon was shorter than he was, and had two jagged swords that he spun about as he advanced. The boy held his axe high, and as the savage came close he brought it down at his head. The man had clearly expected the boy to back away, or try to block the spinning swords. The axe dug into his skull like a rotten log, and he went limp. The boy dug out the blade and spun to meet his next attacker.

There were two of the Forsworn now. One carried a sword, the other had two axes. The axe-wielder was big - even bigger than the boy - while the sword-carrier was a woman. They charged in unison, sword and axes held high, screaming the wrath of their people. Not really knowing what to do, the boy charged, himself, woodaxe held out to the side. As they neared each other, he spun the axe over his head and hurled it at the Forsworn man. The blade buried itself in his chest. The woman was shocked just long enough for the boy to tackle her. On top of her, he grabbed her by the hair and bashed her skull into the ground until he heard it break. Then he sprung up and recovered his axe from the other Forsworn.

The next lost an arm at the shoulder when he missed his swing at the boy's head. The next two after that tried to bully him, rushing and slashing like beasts. The boy was as quick as he was big, though, and they were cut down after he dove out of their way and let them trip over the pig behind him. Another Forsworn woman lost most of her face to her own sword as she misjudged the boy's strength. One even tried to freeze him with magic, but was disemboweled before any real damage could be done.

And then the boy met the leader of this group. He was a massive Forsworn, naked but for a fur skirt, boots and gloves, and a headdress that bore the horns of a great elk. In his chest was a hole the size of a fist, surrounded with blackness spreading out like a sickness. He carried two bone swords, and he pointed them at the boy as he advanced. He mumbled some litany of his faith, and then spread his arms wide, revealing a grotesque fiery abomination where his heart would have been.

The boy was taken aback, and for the first time he hesitated. Rather than charge the big chief, he waited.

When he was close enough, the Forsworn attacked with speed and savagery that seemed inhuman. The axe was an offensive weapon, and not suited for parries, but it was all the boy could do to survive. He struggled to stay alive for what seemed like minutes, dodging and deflecting and retreating, until it seemed he could not hold out any longer. The jagged bones of the Forsworn sword found the boy's flesh more than once, tearing and mangling the skin and muscle beneath.

As what should have been a killing blow swept toward the boys head, an arrow to his shoulder spun him out of the path of the blade. He spun completely around, and landed on his back in the dirt. The Forsworn in the headdress stood over him and laughed. He brought up his swords to deliver the killing blow, but the boy was not done. With both feet, the boy kicked the big Forsworn, throwing him a good fifteen feet into Lemkil's fence.

As the boy got to his knees, the archer who had skewered his shoulder rushed over, an iron dagger in his hand. He dodged the thrusting blade and grabbed the attached arm. He planted his palm into the Forsworn's face with all the force he could manage. The man's face broke in a horrible fashion. As the boy rose to his feet, he finished the archer's skull with his boot.

The big chief's arm was impaled on a fence post. He struggled, growling like a wild animal, but he could not free himself. Slowly, the boy picked up his axe and walked over to the incapacitated man. The Forsworn let out a snarl, and then a cry like a beast. With a roar to drown out his enemy, the boy took off the Forsworn chief's head in one swipe.

He looked around to see that the few Forsworn left alive were quite literally running for the hills. He collapsed then, sitting and leaning against the post that still held the body of his last foe.

"Erik!" his father yelled from the porch of the inn. "Are you alright boy? You've got an arrow in you."

The boy looked at the shaft in his shoulder and started to laugh.


	2. Unbound

Unbound

"He doesn't belong here, Gregory."

"Where else could he even go? He has no family, no friends. No life outside this priory."

"He is a murderer. I've said that from the day you brought him here. I don't care what he says."

"I've never believed that of him."

"And you're alone in that. He killed his brother when he was a boy. Everyone knows that."

"His father thought not."

"Tor was blind with grief. And he and his wife paid dearly for that blindness. Besides all that, have you watched the boy? Talked to him?"

"I have seen him every day for nearly ten years. He is… angry. At the gods, I think."

"And what place does a man who hates the gods have here?"

"I ask again, Brother Julius, where else could he go?"

* * *

Aleron woke slowly. The fuzzy world around him made little sense. He blinked away the fog in his head, and after a moment, he wished he hadn't. The world was spinning, and his head was throbbing. He could practically hear the blood rushing behind his eyes. He closed his lids and tried to breathe easy, let the aching calm and pulsing slow. He pushed away all thought of where he was or what he was doing until he felt he could think clearly.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw large-featured faces and fair hair. They were dirty faces, covered in sweat-streaked earth and blood. They were soldiers' faces, he realized; Nord soldiers in blue-slashed leather armor. These were the Stormcloaks he had heard so much about. He tried to bring his hand up to massage his temple, and realized his wrists were bound. He tried to remember how he had ended up in this position, but he was interrupted…

"You're finally awake," said a yellow-haired Stormcloak to his left. "I was worried you might have broken your head, Breton."

Aleron didn't answer. He was still trying to recall the last few days. He had left the priory… he had been sent to Skyrim… he had been crossing the border when these Stormcloaks found him… they were going to question him, but something had happened… Imperial soldiers. He looked around. The soldiers of the Imperial Legion flanked his cart, and one other. He remembered, now. It had been an ambush. He had tried to get away in the confusion, but he fell down an embankment. He must have hit his head.

When he looked up again at the Nord beside him, the Stormcloak had moved on to the other non-soldier in the cart."

"You," the yellow-haired Nord said. "Horse-thief. Where are you from?"

The thief spoke to Aleron, instead. "You and me, Breton, we shouldn't be here. We're not Stormcloaks. We're not traitors."

Aleron just looked at him.

The yellow-haired Nord laughed - the sad, deflated laugh of a man without hope. "Well," he said, "we're all brothers in bonds now, horse-thief. Where are you from?" he asked again.

"Why do you care," the pitiful man asked defensively.

"Because every Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

They rode in silence for a while, until Aleron noticed that the massive golden-haired Nord in fine clothes on the other side of him had a gag wrapped harshly around his face. The horse thief noticed him staring, and took the opportunity to ask a question.

"What's with him?" he asked, nodding at the gagged Nord.

"Watch your tongue, horse-thief!" the yellow-haired Nord snapped. "That's Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, the leader of the rebellion, and true High King."

The thief was horrified. "Ul… Ulfric Stormcloak. But, oh gods! Where are they taking us?"

"Wherever that is, I think we will all be in Sovngarde soon enough."

Their destination turned out to be Helgen. It was a good-sized town that looked like it had been recently fortified. Easily defendable, nestled up against the mountains to the north, with its timber outer walls and the great stone keep flying the Imperial flag, it seemed to Aleron almost more like a fortress than a settlement.

As they crossed Helgen's gate, they passed an older Imperial general with a group of High Elves, all mounted and appearing lordly. The Stormcloak to his left spoke up again. "There's general Tulius… and he's got his Thalmor with him. Bet they had something to do with all this. Damn elves!" His anger seemed to leave him, though, as soon as the elves were out of sight. After a moment, he began to reminisce. "I used to be sweet on a girl from Helgen."

Aleron tried to ignore him. He knew what kind of mess he was in, and he knew how firmly he did not deserve this. But what had he ever done to deserve any of the horrible things that had found their way to him? It seemed this was just the last sad chapter in a very sad story.

"I wonder if Vilod still makes that mead with the juniper berries."

Aleron had no happy memories to dwell on. His whole life had been loss and regret, rejection and hatred. So he thought of steel. Steel made sense to him. All he had to do was heat it up and he could make it into whatever he wanted. If he made a mistake, he could just heat it up some more. Steel rewarded patience, hard work, stamina. It didn't care if you were angry. Steel was simple.

It wasn't long before the carts stopped, right in the center of Helgen, and all the prisoners were herded down to wait for their names to be called by a fire-haired Nord of the Legion and his Imperial captain.

"Empire loves their damn lists," the yellow-haired Nord said as he climbed down from the cart.

"Read the bloody names, Hadvar," said the captain. She had a sour turn to her mouth, like she had just eaten a bad grape.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," Hadvar, the red-haired Nord legionary said, and with that the massive Nordic lord stepped forward.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric," said the yellow-haired Stormcloak.

"Ralof of Riverwood"

Aleron tuned out the other names. He stared over the others' shoulders at the headsman. He was smiling silently, like an idiot child at his birthday party. At least he enjoyed his lot in life. Aleron tried to think kindly of these Imperials. They were, after all, his countrymen. As he looked at them, though, he realized that they were really not his countrymen at all. They were mostly Nords, with a couple of Imperials in command. These people had nothing in common with a Breton smith from County Chorrol who had never been further from home than a day's walk. He was no one to them. It always came back to that. He was alone in a world where everyone was just looking for their own angle.

His attention was drawn by the Imperial captain shouting, and the thief, who had apparently made a run for it, being feathered from behind by four Imperial bowmen.

"You," the fire-haired Nord legionary all but whispered. "Who are you?"

The question was not meant to be philosophical, but Aleron had spent the last ten years in a priory, listening to the brothers discuss the different tenets of their faith, and how they should best serve the Nine, and Talos. He was predisposed to thinking in the abstract, beyond the obvious. That, and he was an incurable ass.

"Blameless," was all the answer he gave, with a challenging stare to both the captain and the tired-looking Hadvar.

The captain took the opportunity. She rushed over, drawing her blade. She clouted him over the head with the pommel, and shouted at him with far more intensity than was absolutely necessary. "You have a name, prisoner! I suggest you stop playing games, before I send you down to the keep to play with the torturer's hot blades."

His first instinct was to remain silent - because fuck her - but then the more sensible part of his mind pushed through the absurdity of willingly submitting himself to torture for the sake of pride and defiance, and he acquiesced. "Aleron," he said, with as much ice in his voice and expression as he could register.

"You from Daggerfall, Breton?" asked Hadvar. "Fleeing some court intrigue?"

The question was so absurd that Aleron simply stared back at him like a three-headed cow. Before he could respond, the soldier apparently decided he'd rather not even know. He turned to his captain.

"What should we do? He's not on the list."

"Forget the list," the captain spat out angrily. "He wouldn't be here if he weren't meant for the block."

"I'm sorry, prisoner," Hadvar said. "I'll make sure your remains are sent to High Rock."

Aleron gave him the most sardonic smile he could, and followed the captain as she made her way to the block. If nothing else, he could entertain himself in these last few moments with the thought of that great red-headed lummox actually trying to find someone in High Rock to bury him.

He thought of the poor priests in Daggerfall, looking through the lists of family names and making inquiries to the local residents, as General Tulius made a rather heavy-handed speech, denouncing Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, and his murder of the High King, condemning him to death in the name of the Emperor.

A sound of thunder filled the air, or something very like thunder - if thunder could speak, and Aleron was snapped momentarily out of his daydream. One of the guards voiced everyone's thought, asking, "What was that?"

General Tulius dismissed the sound, and bid the female captain commence with the chopping festivities.

"Yes General Tullius," she said. She turned to the priestess who was waiting by the headsman. "Give them their rites."

"As we commend these souls to Aetherius," the little woman started, but already a rust-haired Stormcloak began walking of his own accord to the block. He stopped her after, "Blessings of the Eight Divines."

"Let's just get this over with," the Stormcloak said. "I haven't got all morning."

As he knelt at the block, he stared daggers at Hadvar. "My ancestors are smiling at me, _Imperial_. Can you say the same?" And with that, the headsman did his work.

"As fearless in death as he was in life," said Ralof, the yellow-haired Stormcloak, as the Imperial captain nudged the body of the previous Stormclaok to the side to make room for his sucessor.

"Next, the Breton!" Apparently, the captain wanted to get the non-military prisoner out of the way. Perhaps lest Aleron's name be counted among the martyrs.

That thought amused him. That he could die here, and be somehow mistaken for a freedom fighter, was somehow hilarious. No one had ever accepted him in life. It would be funny to be accepted now as a symbol for a rebellion; especially since he was pretty sure this whole rebellion was a terrible idea - it seemed too much like exactly what the Thalmor would want.

He was actually grinning sadistically at the notion when the sky gave that strange sound again. It was closer this time, he thought, and he could have sworn he heard words in there.

"I said next prisoner!" the captain shouted at him.

As Aleron approached the block, he couldn't keep a wicked smile from his face. His mind had finally approached the subject of how Weynon Priory would react to his death, if they found out. It would certainly please Julius, he was sure. The rest - even Gregory - would probably take it as proof of all his foul deeds. Certainly the gods could not hate an innocent man so much. This was his just punishment.

Apparently, he did not kneel down quickly enough; so the captain kicked him in the back of his knee, forcing him down. He let out a short bark of a laugh, and then he bent his heavy blacksmith's frame over the block. The last man's head was still in the basket below him. He supposed two heads could fit in one basket. He nestled his head onto the block and looked up at the headsman. The big brute smiled stupidly through his black hood.

And then, as the headsman began to raise his axe, the noise returned again, but this time with a wind like a great summer storm. The headsman momentarily lost his balance, and was in the process of resetting his feet for a killing blow, when all around the town erupted in crazed screams and people running. Something the size of a house, but shaped like some horrific amalgam of bat and serpent, landed on the tower behind the headsman, knocking the big man to the ground.

Aleron just barely raised his head. He leaned on that wooden chopping block, in sheer confounded amazement at a dragon, all black scales and jagged spikes.

Someone screamed the obvious, "Dragon!"

As the headsman tried to rise, with everyone fleeing and wailing around them, the dragon looked down and spoke. "FUS RO DAH!" the thing shouted, in a voice like a roaring inferno, and it was as if the wind was a hammer, pounding everything into the earth. Aleron was pushed back off of the block, and when he hit the ground, everything went black.

* * *

Mjoll walked along the sprawling walkways of Riften's docks, as she did most afternoons. She was bored lately, and she was hoping that someone would come in off the river boats with news of bandits along the shore, or really anything that could she could occupy herself with. This new life of hers was turning out to be more difficult than she had expected. Not that she had seen much real action since coming to Riften; in fact, she was mostly frustrated for a lack of real action.

Around her, she saw the dockworkers and fishermen, the riverboaters and the guards, all going about their days. She noticed that they all tried very hard not to see her, and not to be seen. It wasn't really her they were avoiding. In fact, most of the people in Riften seemed to like her. It was just that no one wanted to be questioned if she were murdered in the streets; which they all knew could happen any moment. _These people_, she thought to herself. _All so well trained not to see anything, they do it without even trying_. It was infuriating. Everywhere she looked, she saw downturned heads and shuffling feet. These were frightened people, who did their best to keep their hands on their purse strings and their noses out of each other's business. The guards frustrated her the most, but she supposed it was hard to really blame them for looking away. They were paid well, and if they refused to take the gold they were found dead. And no one quit the guard. Maven Black-Briar made sure of that. So who was Mjoll the Lioness to tell a man with a family that he should stand on his honor and fight the good fight. She had nothing to lose.

She spied Maul by the meadery - Maven's mercenary lapdog. That man she hated with a passion she hadn't felt in years. He was a snake of a man, and probably the most dangerous in Riften. He was a demon with that axe, but that was the least of his weapons. He seemed to know everything that happened within the city. He had somehow ingratiated himself into the Black-Briars' employ, and he still held strong ties to the Thieves' Guild. He was probably the only man in Riften whom she couldn't intimidate, even one-on-one.

He nodded at her as she walked by, a smirk on his lips and a scowl in his eyes. One day she would show him why the rest of the filth in the city was scared of her, but for now she just shot him a challenging stare as she moved on.

She lost herself in the experience of her patrol, then. For all Riften's problems, she still loved the feel of the docks. The fish smell, the shouting river captains, and the sounds of the boats lapping against the moorings; it all reminded her of trips to Solitude with her mother, when they would sit and watch the ships coming and going. She wondered where those times had gone, and if she could ever be like her mother was. And for not the first or last time she considered leaving this putrid city and regaining her life as an adventurer.

But before she could get too far into that thought, she noticed something that she hoped would mean work. An Argonian she had never noticed in Riften before was wandering about near one of the newly docked boats, ranting to herself. As Mjoll got closer, she saw that the Argonian was digging bloody rivulets in her arm with her fingernails. She was holding something in her other hand, but Mjoll had no idea what it was. It looked dwarven.

As she approached slowly, trying not to frighten the skittish-looking lizard, she was shocked as the woman practically leapt at her, shoving the dwarven device into her hands.

"You will take it! Please?" the Argonian pleaded. "I can't take it back! I won't! You must take it back! Please, will you take it?"

Mjoll tried to calm the woman. "I don't understand, friend." She told her. "What happened to you? What is this thing?"

The Argonian was not totally in the moment. She just looked at Mjoll, half in some horrifying dream, or memory, with pleading eyes. "You must take it," she kept saying, tears welling up in her reptilian eyes.

"Okay," she assured the woman. "I'll take it wherever it needs to go. But where is that?"

The look of relief on the Argonian woman's face was clear even through the usual loss in translation with the lizard-people. Her whole body went from tense to mush in a moment.

"Thank you! Thank you! To Avanchnzel. You must take the lexicon to Avanchnzel. You must take it to Watches-The-Roots. You will see where it must go. You must take it back. I won't. Be careful of the constructs. They don't sleep anymore. Thank you!"

With that, the Argonian woman bolted into the city, knocking into one of the guards, who nearly arrested her there. Mjoll hoped that Keerava could maybe calm her down some, get some ale into her. Whatever that poor woman had been through, it had clearly broken her mind, but often time and ale were all that was needed to cure one of such terrors.

After staring at the little Dwemer _lexicon_ for a moment, Mjoll herself started into the city. She was pretty sure she knew where this Avanchnzel was, nestled in the Jerralls just west of Largashbur. If she left before night fell, and had a brief rest on the road, she could be there before noon had preparations to make.

* * *

The priory was dark and empty at this time of night, which was perfect for Aleron. He wanted to see what he could make with some herbs he had found near the old abandoned farm to the east, and he didn't want to have to suffer the suspicious frowns of the brothers right now.

He slipped out of his room behind the forge - or what he considered his room; it was really just a pallet and some books, separated from the rest of the thatch-roofed barn stall by a small shelf for his clothing. He sneaked over the fence and through the sheep to the back end of the priory house. From there, he made his way to the chapel. He was careful not to let the great door creak too much. Even as far away from the house as the chapel was, he kept as quiet as he could; some of the brothers - especially Gregory - woke at the slightest sound.

Inside, he could relax a bit more. No one would be here for hours yet. He moved lazily through the pews, reveling a bit in this moment of small defiance. He wasn't exactly forbidden to enter the chapel, but Julius or Romulus would always accuse him of stealing the offerings if he came here without an escort. He wound his way through the long benches, up to the altar. He lit a candle there, and said a silent prayer to Talos, lest he anger the gods. He went then to the back of the room, left around the altar, to the little staircase that brought him up to the potion room.

This room was forbidden to him. Even with an escort, he had never been allowed in here. It was where the priests would prepare healing potions for weary or sick travelers on the road to Chorrol. It was the only alchemy table he could get to, though, and he would be damned if he would let these old men keep him from practicing his mother's art. Once, he had left one of his own potions in the place of a disease cure that Brandon had made - this one, on top of curing most illnesses, had the added bonus of making one immediately drunk. The day a weary lord dropped by with a case of bone break fever, he had needed to be carried all the way to Chorrol. It had been all the more hysterical, to Aleron, because no one at the priory had any clue that he knew a thing about alchemy.

Tonight, he had a different potion to try. He had gotten hold of some monkshood some time ago, and now he had some blackberries from the old farm. He brought them up to the table, along with some wheat grain and a few lady's smock leaves, and went to work on a potion that should not only close any open wounds, but should heal any aching joints and repair any bruised or damaged muscles.

He ground the monkshood roots into a pulp, tossing the rest of the plant aside. Then he added the blackberries, making sure to crush the berries and break up the little seeds. Then he bruised some of the wheat grain - no need to really grind it down, or it might offset the whole concoction. Lastly he broke up a couple of the lady's smock leaves, threw them in with some water, and set it all to boiling. After it boiled for a minute or so, he set it aside to let it all settle.

While he waited, he pulled a book off the shelf to his right, and began to read from The Aetherium Wars, an odd tome describing the fall of the Dwemer cities in Skyrim due to conflict over something called the Aetherium Forge. He couldn't understand large portions of it, as he had little reference for that time period, but it was a fascinating read.

Aleron was just checking on his potion when he heard voices in the chapel. After a quick moment of panic, he realized that the two voices were those of Gregory and Julius - they were not alchemists, themselves, so they would not be coming into the potion room. Still, it was a shock to see them here at all, a good hour before the sun would come up.

Aleron moved silently to the doorway, to try and catch what it was they were saying.

"He doesn't belong here, Gregory," he heard Julius say.

"Where else could he even go? He has no family, no friends. No life outside this priory."

It seemed they were talking about Aleron, himself. That didn't surprise him, really. Julius had always wanted to turn him out.

"He is a murderer. I've said that from the day you brought him here. I don't care what he says."

_Murderer_. Always that word had scarred his life. _I might want to murder you some days, old man; but I've never killed anyone else._

"I've never believed that of him." That surprised Aleron a little. He had always thought that Gregory was just like everyone else. After the shock of the old man saying it, though, Aleron realized that it meant nothing. He would say anything if it suited his argument, could help him manipulate someone into doing something and letting them think it was them who had the idea in the first place.

"And you're alone in that. He killed his brother when he was a boy. Everyone knows that."

_Hateful old fool. Everyone knows that because that's what you and those like you told everyone. Did you go to the cave? Did you even care to look at my brother's body?_

"His father thought not."

"Tor was blind with grief. And he and his wife paid dearly for that blindness."

Aleron nearly rushed in to tackle the man then. People had been dragging his name through the mud since he could remember, but he hated to hear anyone speak poorly of his father. He kept control of himself, though.

"Besides all that, have you watched the boy? Talked to him?"

"I have seen him every day for nearly ten years. He is… angry. At the gods, I think."

_Wouldn't you be angry, old man, if your family and everything you loved was torn from you slowly while you watched?_

"And what place does a man who hates the gods have here?"

_In the barn stall you twisted spider of a man, making you money and fixing your tools working the forge._

"I ask again, Brother Julius, where else could he go?"

The great door opened, and they were gone, back out into the pre-dawn morning.

Fear gripped Aleron. Where would he go? Where could he go?

* * *

Fire and ash and black clouds formed a haze in his head.

* * *

"Breton!" Aleron heard a familiar voice calling through the miasma of fire and smoke. "Breton, get up! The gods won't give us another chance!"

He was in Helgen. He looked up, and the town was ablaze. All around him, bodies were burning like discarded torches in the square. Overhead, he heard again the thunderous roar of that - was that a _dragon_? - raging more words he could not understand. From the sky, massive boulders fell, spitting fire when they landed. The Nord, Ralof of Riverwood he thought the other man had named him, called to him again as he turned to run for the tower by the burning in.

He struggled to get himself to his feet. His hands were still bound, and the world spun with every movement of his head. He stumbled forward, toward the tower entrance; he was nearly smashed by one of the falling, flaming rocks.

As he got inside, looking at all the freed hands, he expected someone to cut his bonds, but instead the yellow-haired Ralof stood by the door talking to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak while another Nord tended to the wounded Stormcloaks huddled up in the floor.

Ulfric started shouting, "We need to move, now!" Aleron didn't need to be told twice.

He started up the stairs of the tower, thinking perhaps he could jump over to the roof of the inn from up top. He was half way there when the wall exploded, showering him with stone. Worse than the stone, though was the massive horned lizard-head of the dragon, breathing fire with a shout of YOL TOOR SHUL, and cooking the poor bastard who had been trapped under the majority of the debris.

When the beast was done, most of the fire left with it - _So its fire is magical, then; okay, that's good to know_. Aleron looked out the hole the thing had made in the tower, and noticed he could make an easy jump to the top floor of the inn. He ran and jumped as Ralof was just pointing out the idea himself.

Aleron soared over the small alley between the two buildings, through the frame of the second floor window, and into the inn. He landed oddly, and slammed into a large hutch, knocking it over the smoke-rotted railing to the lower floor. He followed it down after he had regained his balance. Outside he could hear a lot more screaming and shouting; people either dying, or trying to find a way out of the town.

As Aleron raced out of the inn, he could see the Nord legionary from before, Hadvar, trying to get a child away from a charred body.

"Hamming!" Hadvar yelled. "Get away from there! Find some cover!"

"Go, boy!" the scorched man yelled.

The boy did as he was bid, and started toward Hadvar.

"That a boy, Hamming," Hadvar said. "You're doing great."

Just then, the dragon landed not ten feet from the body. The boy stumbled, but he kept going forward. The dragon reared back his head to shout fire at them again. To his credit, Hadvar didn't turn and run, but waited until the boy made it to his arms, and then ducked behind a building the moments they would have been burned to a crisp. It was the bravest thing Aleron had ever seen.

Hadvar then handed the boy off to an old warrior who was waiting behind the building. "Gunnar, take the boy. I'm going to find General Tullius and join the defense." He noticed Aleron then. "Still alive, prisoner? Stick with me if you want to stay that way?"

With that he took off toward an alley between a wall running through the town and another burned out home. As Aleron followed after him, he heard the old warrior, Gunnar, calling after. "Gods guide you, Hadvar."

In the alley, Hadvar stopped short, yelling, "Stay against the wall!" as the dragon landed on right on top of them. From there it shouted fire again, torching an Imperial archer not fifty feet from where they were crouched under its very wings. It took off again, the gust of wind from its wings pounding them to the ground.

They scrambled to their feet, and were off again, down the scoured city street. Hadvar turned left suddenly, cutting through the burned out husk of a home, and Aleron followed. There was fire everywhere in the house, but it was fading without the magic that had created it. When they emerged through the front door, they found themselves in the center of the battle.

Archers and mages, maybe twenty of them, altogether, stood in a formation firing arrows and fireballs into the sky. Behind them, Tullius was shouting orders. It was a brief meeting. Aleron and Hadvar had clearly come at the end of the fight.

"Hadvar, into the keep!" Tullius shouted over the din. Hadvar tried to protest, clearly not wanting to run, but Tullius just reiterated. "Into the keep, soldier, we're leaving!"

"Bah!" the big soldier roared in frustration. "With me, prisoner." He trotted off toward the big stone building near the collapsed southern gate, and Aleron followed.

They were nearly to the door of the keep when Ralof emerged from another destroyed home. Hadvar stopped just before they collided, and pulled his sword. Ralof produced an axe from behind his belt.

"Ralof! You damned traitor!" _So these two know each other_, Aleron thought.

Ralof didn't look like he wanted a fight. "We're leaving, Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time."

"Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

And then Aleron followed Hadvar into the keep.

* * *

Mjoll hadn't been on a good dungeon raid in a long time. She took the steps by twos, up the docks to the inner city. The guard by the dock gate gave her a puzzled look as she ran past him smiling like a scatty girl.

_Finally_, she thought. _Some excitement. Some trouble I can fix with my sword and my heart._ She was tired of fighting Riften's battles. Not because the cause was less than just, or because the people were unworthy. Truthfully, if she could do it, saving Riften from itself would be the most worthwhile thing she had ever done - it would be, if she had any inclination how to do it.

When she first started this crusade, after Aerin had nursed her fully back to health, and she had decided to dedicate her life to bringing the corrupt of this city to justice, she had thought that she would just need to bust a few heads, bring the villains to the Jarl for judgment, and then she could be on her way. But the first Thieves' Guild member she had brought before the Jarl had been freed. Since she had stopped him before he could get away with anything, the Jarl's steward, Anuriel, had argued that he was not really a thief, as he hadn't actually stolen anything. So the next time, Mjoll had let the thief get out of the house he had been burgling, only to lose him in the Ratway. By the time she had caught up with him, he had stashed the goods somewhere in that cesspit the Ragged Flagon.

Most of her efforts in the city had been like that. The Jarl seemed to appreciate her efforts, and Anuriel at least pretended to; and the guards never really tried to hinder her - even if they didn't actually help either. She had realized along the way that most of Riften was under the thumb of Maven Black-Briar, who had ties to the Thieves' Guild and the Dark Brotherhood. But the woman had somehow convinced the Jarl that she was a friend, and that she herself was trying to put a stop to the crimes in the city. It was maddening.

But now Mjoll had a problem that was simple. She needed to take this _lexicon_ thing to Avanchnzel, to someone named Watches-The-Roots, and she would likely have to fight through some Dwemer constructs on the way. She wasn't fond of the Dwemer war machines. She had nearly been killed in Mzinchaleft by some mechanical giant with a sword the size of a chapel door; it had nearly boiled her in her armor, spitting hot steam at her while she tried to flee. But as much as she hoped that she wouldn't have to face one of those again, she wasn't afraid. She was excited.

She made her way to Aerin's house, where she lived in the room that had once been his mother's. She smiled at the little symbol carved next to the door - it had been carved not long after she moved in, and she had found that it was a Thieves' Guild warning of danger to Guild members. Inside, the house was empty, for which she was grateful. She had no real desire to argue with Aerin about whether or not it was safe to go into these Dwemer ruins. Very few ruins in Skyrim were safe. If there weren't metal guardians in the ancient Dwemer cities, there were Falmer. And in the old Nord crypts there were likely to be draugr and giant spiders. She didn't care about "safe". She could get a knife in her throat while she slept, right here in Riften.

She readied herself in her room. She needed her pack for supplies, so she dug through her chest to the bottom, where the pack had been for far too long. She found her big leather water-bag, some good rope, three torches, a few lockpicks, and two health potions from Elgrims', just in case. She would fill the rest of the pack with bread and cheese when she went back downstairs.

First, though, she unclasped her bulky banded iron armor, and set it aside. She needed to re-wrap her breasts. More than a normal wrap - the ones most of the woman in Skyrim wore as smallclothes - a warrior woman needed to bind her breasts as tightly as possible to her chest, or they could become serious problems under a suit of armor. For some women - women like Mjoll - it was more of a chore than for others. When she was younger, she had enjoyed the attention her shape had gotten her; but now she just wished she could go more than a couple of hours without having to wrap and re-wrap. She had heard of women who cut their breasts off to get them out of the way in battle - some said the Forsworn sword-maidens did this, though Mjoll knew better - but she could never bring herself to do anything that extreme. Who knew? Maybe one day, if she took an injury or something, she might even want to have a child. So for now, it was bind, wrap, and tie.

When she was armored again, she went downstairs to finish packing. And there was Aerin, just coming through the front door. He took one look at the pack and started.

"Where are you going?" he asked. "Have you finally given up on this wretched city?" he tried his best not to show his anxiety at the thought.

"I haven't given up, Aerin." Mjoll knew that Aerin would never ask her to stay, if she wanted to go. But he would be heartbroken to see her leave. She would be sad when that day came, too, but not for the same reasons. Aerin was a sweet boy, and he certainly deserved a good woman. But that woman was not her.

"I met an Argonian woman today who gave me this." She showed him the lexicon. "Apparently, it needs to be taken back to Avenchnzel, to someone named Watches-The-Roots. Don't you just love those bizarre Argonian names?"

"You don't mean that crazy woman drinking herself to death at the Bee and Barb?"

"I told her I'd take the thing back. What's the big deal, Aerin? Obviously the place isn't too dangerous, or she wouldn't be here to talk about it." That didn't quite make sense, really, but she was trying to set Aerin's mind at ease. He wasn't fooled.

"That's ridiculous, Mjoll. She came into Keerava's talking about a giant metal man. You know what that means, Mjoll. You can't go taking on another one of those _centurion_ things alone!"

"I told her I'd take the lexicon back, Aerin," she said. "And that's what I'm going to do."

Then she patted his cheek as she squeezed around him to the door. "I'll be fine, friend." As she opened the door, she added, "If I'm not back in five days, you can hire Marcurio to come and get me."

"Marcurio!" she heard him call as she shut the door. "Wait, he'd just make things worse! Damn it, Mjoll!"

* * *

In the keep, Aleron's bonds were finally removed. They were in the soldiers' quarters, so he set to looking for some armor, or at least some proper clothes, while Hadvar looked for a key to open the door into the rest of the keep. He found a fine set of Imperial leather armor, but it was clearly made for a Nord - too long for him, and too narrow for his wide blacksmith's shoulders. He did, however, find a decent pair of leather boots that fit him well enough. He put on the boots, and took the dull iron sword from the rack on the wall.

Hadvar finally found the key for the back door, and so they found themselves in a seldom-used corridor that the Nord said should lead down under the keep, where there was supposedly a secret way out. Under the main tower, they ran into some Stormcloaks who had come through a drainage gate on the ground floor. They were armed, one with a greatsword and the other with a war axe and shield. They started to raise their weapons for a fight, but Hadvar tried to calm them.

"It's all right," he said. "There's no need for that."

"You people just took off Arild's head," said the bigger Stormcloak. "I'd say there's plenty of need. Vengeance!" he shouted as he charged.

Hadvar had his sword out quickly. The little steel gladius was more than a match for the cheep iron greatsword. The big legionary swatted the heavy weapon out of the way, and then stabbed the Stormcloak in the neck. He spun to see how his prisoner was holding up, to find Aleron bending over the other Stormcloak, taking his bearded iron axe. The sword Aleron had been carrying lay a few feet away, with the man's head.

"And here I was worried you were just some big clumsy blacksmith or something." Hadvar said.

"I am a blacksmith," Aleron told him, as he made his way over to the bigger Stormcloak, and started to pull off his leather armor.

Hadvar knelt down to help him. "Well, someone must have taught you how to use a sword."

"Yeah," was all the answer he gave.

When they had finished getting the leathers off of the Stormcloak, Aleron quickly tore off the blue sash, then grabbed a large bowl and a bottle of mead off the table in the corner. He poured the bottle of mead out over the armor making sure to wet all the leather, and then started scooping dirt off the floor into the bowl.

Hadvar just stared at him for a moment, before finally asking, "What are you doing?"

Aleron didn't answer. He just picked up the big Stormcloak's arm and cut down the wrist. He let the blood flow into the bowl of dirt, until it had a nice viscous consistency. Then he pulled the armor over and started smearing the blood mixture all over the leather. They could still hear the dragon roaring and feel the ground shake.

"Whatever you're doing," Hadvar told him, "you need to hurry. We've got to get out of here before that dragon brings the whole tower down on our heads"

Aleron kept smearing the bloody mess. "I've been mistaken for a Stormcloak once. I'd rather it didn't happen again."

Hadvar laughed to himself, looking down at the now rather dark, reddish-brown armor. The soldiers of the Legion knew the Stormcloak uniform well enough to question anyone wearing the armor, even without the blue sash. But Ulfric himself would not think this had ever been a Stormcloak's garb.

"There," Aleron said, dabbing the sticky leather dry again with the Stormcloak's shirt. He slid the armor over his sackcloth tunic, and headed further into the keep.

* * *

Further below, past a storeroom with a couple of healing potions, they heard fighting as they made their way down another flight of stairs.

"The torture room," Hadvar said. "Gods, I wish we didn't need these. Come on."

At the bottom of the stairs, they found the torturer casting lightning spells at a couple of Stormcloaks, his assistant in a bloody heap beside one of the cells. Hadvar managed to stab one of the assailants in the back, while the other was overcome by the force of the lightning spell.

The room smelled of horror and rotten flesh; Aleron had to choke back a gag. There were bodies in the cells lining the walls; all of them dead, and some of them had been that way for some time. He stepped over the charred and the bleeding remains, to check on the other assistant. Once he was satisfied that the man was dead, he turned back to the dead bodies. The torturer spoke to Hadvar, as Aleron rummaged through the Stormcloaks' belongings.

"The main entrance to the keep is blocked." Hadvar was telling the older man. "Which way is the hidden cave?

The torturer apparently wasn't convinced of Hadvar's report of the situation. "How could the main entrance be blocked? What are you talking about?"

"Haven't you been listening? A dragon is attacking the city!"

Aleron moved on from the bodies - nothing worth toting around. He moved into another barred off room where he found some promising contraband. There were a few books, a couple of lockpicks, and a decent-sized knapsack to carry some of these things. Best of all he found a decent wood-and-iron shield. He packed them all up and made ready to move on as the other two men continued to argue.

"You have no authority over me, boy."

"Fine," Hadvar spat. "But we're moving on, this way."

Aleron noticed that one of the dead prisoners in the cells was sitting on a book. He was going to ignore it, but then he realized that it was a spell tome - and those could be worth a decent amount of money. He tried the cell door.

"Don't bother with that," the torturer told him. "Lost the key ages ago. Poor fellow screamed for days after I stopped bothering to feed him. He wasn't coming out of there anyway; no use wasting provisions."

"Come on, prisoner," Hadvar added. "We need to keep moving."

Aleron pulled out one of the lockpicks he had found in the other room. "Hold on a second," he said. Then he slid the pick in, fumbled around with the mechanism for a few seconds, and sprung the lock.

"Where does a blacksmith learn to do that?" Hadvar asked him.

"Who do you think makes the locks?"

Hadvar snorted. "That would help, I suppose. I'll have to ask my uncle about that. Now come on, friend."

_Well_, Aleron thought, _you were willing to stand by and watch me die for nothing an hour ago. But now I suppose you're my only _friend_ in the world._

And with that, they set off into the caves.

* * *

Erik was drunk - really drunk, as he was too often these days. He sat in the Frostfruit in, drinking up his father's supply, and talking to himself. There were few patrons, and none dared to complain. The locals all knew why he drank and the others were too afraid to draw the towering Nord's attention. Mralki, his father, just watched in sadness, not knowing what to do.

Mralki had been a good soldier, once, but he had never been a particularly good father. He had tried to make sure that Erik was a disciplined lad, and he had succeeded there. The boy always woke himself early, and did his work around the inn with a mechanical efficiency. But in most other ways, Erik seemed confused and frustrated. He was a young man with a future, Mralki would always tell him, when the boy was angry in his cups. He had a roof over his head, a job for the rest of his life, a good work ethic, and a companionable, if awkward, way with people. He was a good-looking boy, through no fault of his father's; a thick head of red hair, a strong jaw, on six and a half feet of lean muscle. He bedded half the girls who came through Rorikstead, even the noble girl who came through last week. He had everything a young Nord could hope for. But he was clearly not happy.

"You know," Erik told Jouane Manette, who was sitting closest to him, only two tables down, "they shay that in the old Djwarjish… Djwarversh… Djwarven ruinsh…" He licked his lips and swallowed hard, trying to remember what he had been going to say. "Ah, you don't give a shit anyway, do you?"

He went back to his drinking, brooding somewhat more quietly to himself. Sometime in the late afternoon, after most of the patrons had gone home for supper, a man entered dressed in fine scale armor, with a sword and shield thrown over his back. Erik saw him talking to Mralki, renting a room for the night. It was obvious he was a warrior of some sort, perhaps even a mercenary. He chatted with Mralki for some time, before the old man led him to a room, and left him to unpack his gear.

Erik thought, not for the first time, how nice it would be to be a mercenary; to have adventures, _and_ get paid to have them. It seemed to him like having your mead and drinking it, too. Thinking about it, Erik started to fall asleep.

_SLAM!_ A drink set down hard at his table startled him from his stupor.

"Easy there, big guy," the mercenary said, prying Erik's hand from his arm that held the drink. "Just a drink. Left all my weapons in the room. Not much chance of getting mugged in Rorikstead, this time a night. Name's Vorstag."

He was a big man, this Vorstag. Not so tall as Erik - not by a few inches - but he was wide as an ox and muscled likewise. He had long, dirt-colored hair that fell all around his head and face, nearly covering the blue war paint on his right cheek. His bare arms were heavily scarred, but his face was unblemished. All-in-all, he looked the very picture of the adventurous sellsword.

"Erik," the innkeeper's son replied. He had sobered up some in his sleep, it seemed. "Welcome to Rorikstead, and the Frostfruit Inn."

"Obliged."

"You a Companion or something?" he asked the man. "We get some through here on occasion. Usually Skjor or Aela or Farkas." Erik had always liked the Companions; especially Farkas, with his easy manner and willingness to tell tales of his exploits. He still hoped to one day join that illustrious group of heroes, if he could ever get out of Rorikstead. But that dream was slowly dying.

"Companion? Me?" Vorstag seemed amused by that thought. "No. Thought about it a time or two, but the idea of sharing the spoils of battle with a guild of that sort has always made me keep my distance. No, I'm a sellsword. I mostly work in the Rift, escorting travelling merchants; keeping them safe from the Forsworn, that sort of thing."

"Well then," Erik said, raising his glass in mock salute. "To the Forsworn! May they never return to our fair soil." He rubbed his shoulder in memory.

The sellsword raised his eyebrows in question. "You're not the boy Erik who killed ten Forsworn in one raid, are you?"

"Aye. That was three years ago, roundabouts." Erik's eyes misted over, lost in the memory.

"Thought Perth must have been lying about that one," Vorstag said. "You really killed ten Forsworn raiders with a wood-chopping axe?"

Erik just nodded, and the mercenary burst with laughter. "Boy, if you were any smaller, I wouldn't believe it."

They talked for a while, Erik of his fight against the Forsworn, and Vorstag of his many skirmishes throughout the Rift. The sellsword seemed to know a lot about the mountains around Markarth, and even some interesting facts about Dwemer traps, from his days dungeon raiding with a small mercenary band. They drank, and laughed over stories of loose women - especially the highborn type. As evening turned to night, the talk looped back around to Erik's defense of Rorikstead. He told Vorstag of his boredom, here in this little town.

"Well," the mercenary said. "I will tell you what. I talked to Perth on my way down here from Markarth. You know him? Solid fellow, for a Breton. Owns Soljund's Sinkhole, in the mountains west of here. Said he's had to lock up the mine, let go all his workers, on account of some draugr. Seems the miners dug into an old ruin without knowing it. I was going to take care of it myself for free, after I got back from my business eastward, the man being a friend. But I'd bet he'll pay you if you go out there and take care of it before I return."

Erik didn't really know what to say. He knew he was drunk, that his father would probably disown him if he went off on such a dangerous adventure; but at the moment he didn't care.

"Draugr?" he asked, thinking of the stories his father used to tell him as a boy.

"Oh, they're real," Vorstag said. "Not that the stories of them dragging off villagers make much sense." He chuckled to himself, as he recalled the ancient dead Nords who haunted the barrows and ruins of Skyrim. "They're stronger than you'd think they'd be, them being decaying old corpses. But they're slow, and not real bright. They just mindlessly hack at anything they think isn't supposed to be in their area. Anyone with good steel, and enough brains not to let himself get cornered by more than one of 'em, shouldn't have much trouble."

"I'll have to give that some thought," Erik said, keeping his voice low enough that his father wouldn't hear. He didn't have any good steel, but he was pretty sure he could keep from being cornered by something without much quickness to it. "I'd have to find myself a better weapon, probably. Be daft to go hunting the walking dead with a woodaxe."

"Tell you what," Vorstag whispered hoarsely. "I got a pretty nice steel battleaxe I found on a bandit yesterday. I was going to sell it, once I found a trader. But if you can get us another round without your old man charging me for it, the axe is yours."

Erik looked over to his father. He knew it wouldn't be too hard to convince the man he was sober enough to watch the bar for the night. After that, well, Mralki knew his son drank a lot. "Deal."

* * *

The journey through the caves was long, twisting, and very cold. The torturer stayed behind, refusing to leave his _post_, and so Aleron and Hadvar made their way through the damp, freezing tunnels.

As they entered a large cavern with a softly babbling underground stream, there were three more Stormcloaks waiting for them. Two were close at hand, arguing about what could be happening above. Another stood further back, stringing his bow atop a rise near the rear exit of the cavern. Aleron rushed in ahead of Hadvar, taking on the arguing pair before they were aware of the danger. The first was dead before he freed his sword, bleeding out into the stream from his half-severed neck. The other got his shield up in time to block Aleron's axe, but could do nothing against the gladius in his back. As Hadvar freed his sword, the archer finished stringing his bow. He fired his first arrow at Aleron's head, but the blacksmith was able to catch it on his shield. The second caught Hadvar in the calf. As the big Nord legionary went down, the archer aimed his third for the kill. But before he could line up the shot, an axe flew over his head. He ducked, thinking himself lucky; but behind him was an oil lamp hanging from the cavern ceiling. Aleron's axe struck the lamp, and it exploded, sending fiery rain on the Stormcloak that caught on the fur under his armor. He screamed as he stumbled into more oil spilled by the lamp, lighting him up like a torch.

As the last Stormcloak cooked atop the rise, Aleron helped his companion pull the arrow from his leg. He looked at the men lying dead not far away. Their faces were unfamiliar.

"I'm pretty sure these weren't with the group I came in with," he told Hadvar.

"No," the big man replied. "These boys were some of the ones that got away in the pass."

A health potion closed up the wound quickly, and they were off again. They crossed a bridge over a large crack in the cave floor that didn't seem to have a bottom.

"I'm sorry, friend," Hadvar said, "but in all the confusion, I can't seem to remember your name."

"Well, you've only heard it once," Aleron replied, carefully watching his footfalls over the old bridge. "And as I was about to die, you can be forgiven for thinking you wouldn't need to know it again. It's Aleron."

"Aleron," Hadvar repeated to himself. "Well, I asked earlier if you were from Daggerfall; but now I'd say you sound Colovian. Am I right?"

"You're not wrong. I grew up on a farm south of Chorrol, until I was fifteen." Images of his parents' graves, and the funeral pyre that was his home, flashed before his eyes, and he nearly lost his balance as he stepped from the bridge. "The last ten years I have spent at Weynon Priory."

"A priest!" Hadvar exclaimed. "We took a priest for a murderer. Gods preserve us."

"Well, like I said, I was a blacksmith. I wasn't a priest. And the gods seem to have made the same mistake."

Hadvar looked questioningly at that remark, but the smith said no more.

At some point, they turned left sharply, leading them into another section of the underground brook. That path dead-ended shortly afterwards, and they took a right into another path, which lead straight into a nest of frostbite spiders.

Eight legs, each the length of a man, attached to a body over four feet long, with pincers the size of a child's arms; the frostbite spider of Skyrim was a horrid, terrifying spectacle. Fighting one could mean an unpleasant death, wrapped alive in a cocoon of thick webbing, and slowly drained of blood. There were five in this nest.

Fortunately, the abundance of limbs made them easy targets; and the utter lack of intelligence robbed them of any semblance of defensive thought. To a frostbite spider, the best mode of attack was always _charge, grapple, and bite_. The two men stayed near the entrance to the nest.

"Don't let them surround us," Hadvar yelled.

Back to back, they fended off the massive arachnids, slashing at the forelegs that tried to wrap around them, then stabbing at bulbous eyes, lifeless and somehow still full of hunger. The two smaller spiders - each about the size of a large dog - were actually the hardest to kill. They were faster than their larger kin, and far more skittish; they darted back and forth at the two men, until Hadvar and Aleron caught each of them in turn, mangling their fuzzy bodies.

"Gods," Hadvar exclaimed. "What's next, giant snakes?"

"There's a flying serpent the size of a chapel tower destroying the town above us."

"Gods, it really is the end times."

The next tunnel wrapped back around to another cavern, further down the stream again. The pair crossed a little natural bridge and stopped. Across another bend in the stream, the sun broke through a small vent in the mountainside, throwing a little patch of life into the dreary world under the earth. For a moment, their hearts were lightened at the sight; until they saw the huge brown shape huddled at the edge of the light.

"Hold it!" Hadvar whispered. "See that bear over there? I've not enough left to tangle with her."

Aleron had no problem with avoiding another fight, especially not one with a cave bear as big as a horse. "She's sleeping. We should be able to sneak around this side of the water without waking her."

Hadvar thought a moment, nervously. "I'll follow your lead."

Aleron took it slowly. He watched each step as carefully as he could, making sure not to kick any stones down into the water. A bitter laugh rose up in his throat, and had to be choked down, at the thought of sneaking through the priory grounds just a month ago. This was actually much easier; he could keep his eye on the bear, and he knew that it was sleeping. He only needed to keep quiet and not trip over his own feet. All-in-all, the bear didn't stir, and Hadvar followed him toward the last tunnel.

At the sight of the cave mouth ahead, Hadvar sighed. "This looks like the exit. I was starting to think we wouldn't make it."

* * *

The trail to Riverwood was less harsh. Travelling north for a while, Aleron learned that Hadvar had grown up in Riverwood, and that he still had family there. Once they reached the White River, Aleron had been shown his first sight of the famous ancient Nord Guardian Stones. The Warrior, the Thief, and the Mage had been carved into three large, semi-cylindrical stones somehow standing erect on an ancient slab. The Warrior Stone had felt strangely warm. Beyond that, the journey was uneventful - though the beauty of Skyrim was not lost on Aleron, especially the rapids and the leaping salmon.

They reached Riverwood by nightfall. It was a smallish town, dominated by the mill and the inn. Hadvar's uncle, Alvor, turned out to be the town blacksmith. Aleron and Hadvar sat now around his table, with his daughter, Dorthe, and his wife, Sigrid.

"Now," the older man directed at Hadvar, "why don't you tell me what happened?"

Hadvar seemed so tired now. He let out a heavy sigh, and began. "Well, I don't even know where to start. You know I was assigned to General Tulius' guard. Two days ago, we captured Ulfric Stormcloak. We were stopped in Helgen. Tulius decided to have him executed there, where the Empire had such a strong presence, before there was any chance of the Stone-Fist breaking him free. And then… and then a dragon attacked, and all hell broke loose."

"A dragon? You're not drunk, are you boy?" Alvor asked, incredulous.

Sigrid broke in, defending her nephew. "Hush, Alvor. Let the boy finish his story."

Hadvar gave his aunt a thankful look. "Not much else to tell, really. The dragon burned the city to the ground. We escaped through the keep. I'm not sure anyone else made it out alive. I doubt I would have if not for my friend here."

Aleron was uncomfortable with the appreciation. He was not used to it. "I don't see how I did much other than keep you company."

"That's not true at all," the legionary said. "If those Stormcloaks under the keep hadn't done for me, the spiders definitely would have. I owe you my life."

"Well, I was just trying to survive, same as you."

* * *

They spent the night there, with Hadvar taking the spare bed. Aleron refused to displace Dorthe to squeezing in with her parents, preferring instead to sleep outside, by the forge. It was a good forge; spacious, well organized, and clean (as forges go). He felt comfortable there.

When he woke the next morning, Hadvar was already gone.

"Said he was going on to Solitude," Alvor told him. "To make sure the Legion knows what happened."

"Well, thank you for your hospitality," Aleron said. He grabbed his knapsack, and made ready to leave, saying, "Is there's anything I can help with before I go? I'm a decent smith, if you need any help around the forge."

"Aye, maybe later. For now, there is something you can do for me." The old smith seemed ashamed, for some reason, to be asking anything of his guest. "I've a lot of orders to fill today, or I'd go myself, but… someone needs to go to Whiterun, to tell the Yarl of the danger. We've got no real warriors here in Riverwood. If a dragon attacked, we'd be defenseless."

Aleron was tired; tired of travel, tired of not having his own life. But he owed this man. "How far is it? How do I get there?"

* * *

It was well after noon - closer to twilight, really - but Mjoll finally saw the Dwarven ruins ahead of her. The remains of the ancient city was mostly inside the mountain - all the Dwemer cities were, really. The entryway was all that was meant to be seen by the world of men. Deep in a cleft in the mountain, a hundred stairs led up to a huge stone archway which had been buried by a rockslide. She looked around at the wall of earth and stone, at the strange markings all about the doorway. Above to the right, there was a mostly intact spire, jutting proudly from far above where the rocks had fallen that covered main entrance. She couldn't climb up there - not with all her armor, for sure.

She looked to the left, and found a stone walkway up to a platform looking over the entrance. From that platform, she could see that there was another platform directly over the main door. At one time the walkway between the two podiums must have been safe; but now it was little more than a foot-and-a-half wide, and crumbling and breaking away from the rock face. She tossed her pack to the next landing, and then crossed, herself, thirty feet above the ground and moving as quickly as she could.

She let out a long, satisfied breath, as she found a tunnel into the earth where the platform met the mountainside. _Gods I missed this. _And so, after grabbing her pack and lighting one of her torches, she squeezed through the opening into the blackness of the mountain.

The tunnel lasted a hundred or so yards, twisting downward slowly. The light of her torch mingled with the dim lights of the glowing mushrooms growing from the walls. It was damp here, but so close to Lake Honrich, that wasn't surprising; there was probably an underground tributary somewhere in the city below. Finally, after following the tunnel for some time, it dropped off into a larger cavern, which led into another tunnel below.

Mjoll stood at the precipice, looking for a way down without falling the twelve-or-so feet to the stone floor below, when suddenly she heard a voice in the darkness beneath her.

It was a man's voice"I don't like this place. It feels like we're being… watched."

She looked down to see three shades, glowing orange in the darkness. One was an Argonian; two were human.

"It's a simple job Drennen," the human woman replied. "We get in; we get the lexicon; we leave. Don't get jumpy."

"If you two cannot get the job done, we can find others to hire." That voice seemed to come out of the air. It sounded a lot like the scared Argonian woman who sent Mjoll here.

Then, the Argonian shade walked further into the ruins, saying, "Enough. Their services should be more than adequate. Let us continue."

Mjoll wasn't frightened by ghosts - not when they seemed to be living out their final moments, anyway. They weren't dangerous unless they were summoned into reality by a necromancer, and she had seen that when that happened they were always a strange pale ethereal grey/green mist, not bright luminescent orange figures.

Still, something was wrong in this place. She felt it just as Drennen had. _Oh well, nothing for it but to press on._

In the end, she found a safe way down to the floor. In the next tunnel, where the ghosts had gone, she could see the light of burning braziers. Through there was the real entrance to Avanchnzel.


End file.
